


The Torch; Be Yours to Hold It High

by Katowisp



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Castiel (Supernatural) is Bad at Feelings, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feels, Gen, Hurt, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Castiel, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:16:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katowisp/pseuds/Katowisp
Summary: Dean and Castiel spend a quiet moment together after a bad night of sleep.





	The Torch; Be Yours to Hold It High

Castiel enjoyed dew. 

It reminded him of renewal and hope. On the battlefields in the mornings, there was still dew. It was pink, and it clung to the blades and the dead. 

Castiel had laid siege to the gates of Hell, and there was no dew there-- only blood and bones. 

Castiel stood outside the Hotel Monte Cristo. Thousands of glittering drops had gathered on the hood of Dean’s beloved car, and Castiel enjoyed watching the reflections of dirty hotel lights and faint morning sun. 

Cas did not look up as he heard the nearby door close and the soft crunch of gravel on worn pavement. Dean finally slid up next to him. He followed Castiel’s gaze to the water. 

“What’re you doing, Cas?” Dean asked. His pallor was poor, his eye sockets too dark. He looked at Cas with eyes that were too bright.

Feverish, Cas noted. He became concerned. 

The eastern sky was pale and promised a calm morning over the eastern plains of Kansas. Here, Castiel could see God everywhere. He liked this place, even as he knew how much Sam and Dean hated it. But when he was here, he knew he wasn’t wrong to give up his search. He’d find his Father.

“You are sick,” Castiel said.

Dean rubbed a hand through his hair. It was shiny with oil, and his hands were calloused from overuse and CLP. The weapon cleaner had edged into the cracks in his skin, giving his hands a permanently dirty look. He looked worn. Castiel knew Dean would bring himself back together when Sam woke. 

“Rough night,” Dean said casually with a crooked grin. He meant to attribute his morning appearance to too much alcohol. His shoulders were too tense. He had not been drinking. Castiel let the lie settle between them.

“It will be a long time before you stop dreaming of Hell,” Castiel said. He looked out at the rising sun, his brow dipping slightly as he seemed to see something that Dean couldn’t. Dean followed his gaze again. His jaw was tight; teeth clenched. Castiel looked at his charge. In the early sunlight, Dean’s eyes were the brilliant green of fresh grass in the spring. 

“When we defeat Lucifer,” Dean said hopefully, but it was more of a question. 

“No,” Castiel said. He felt hope leave Dean with his exhaled breath. He was a terrible guardian angel. “Not even then.”

Well, but he was never supposed to be a guardian angel. 

“Maybe never, Dean.” Castiel studied Dean’s face. He tried so hard to be brave, but Castiel knew the things that were chewing away at his soul. Knew Dean was eventually going to come out stronger, or broken. It’d been over a year since he’d freed Dean from the depths of Hell, but the time made little difference on the human’s damaged psyche. If anything, it was getting worse, as Dean started processing his forty years.

“I did terrible things, Cas. I started this.” Dean looked bleak. 

“No man is supposed to leave Hell alive. You are alone in this endeavor. No one holds it against you, Dean.” As the sun breasted the distant horizon, a brief wind kicked up, softly carressing Castiel’s lips, his hair. He had spent two thousand years on this earth, watching, but never feeling. He wondered how he had never appreciated the morning breezes before. 

He had squandered so much. 

“It’s not good enough,” Dean stressed. Castiel looked back with his impassive blue eyes, wishing he knew what to say. Castiel had learned doubt. He knew fear. He even knew affection; it had been what brought him to the attention of his chain of command. He was testing out the pallet of unwashed emotions.

But he did not know white lies. Did not know how to pad Dean in empty words to make him feel better. They stood there quietly. Dean, uncomfortable and exhausted from a string of restless nights; Castiel inhuman by his nature, did not know what to say. He stood uselessly. He had never thought he was going to have to learn the intricacies of human emotions. Castiel knew it was rare to see Dean like this. 

Not as rare as it had been. 

“I have nothing to say,” Castiel finally spoke up as a flush of humidity hit them, late spring in Kansas. There was water on the air; Castiel could smell an ancient ocean. “You bear a lot of weight on your shoulders. It is not easy.”

“Tell me what to do,” Dean said so quietly that Castiel almost wondered if he had said it at all. Dean wouldn’t look at him; he never did, when something serious was sitting on his chest. His troubled eyes would catch something in the distance, and he’d hold it. This time, a light pole held his interest. 

“Dean, whenever I tell you what to do, you always perform in the exact opposite,” Castiel said wryly, with a quirk of an eyebrow. If nothing else, Dean was incorrigible. He was as frustrating to demons as he was to angels. Dean Winchester was very human. 

But that was what it took, and Dean’s eyes lit, a real grin quirking the side of his mouth. “I’ve had enough of following orders in my day,” Dean wiped some of the dew off the hood of the car. “This water is no good for my baby.”

“Would it be wiser for me to tell you the exact opposite of what I want you to do?”

“It might work out a little better for you,” Dean agreed. His eyes were warm, the lines at the corners of his eyes and on his forehead had released. Dean stretched, bones popping with the effort. “Ugh, I’m getting old,” Dean complained. 

Castiel tried out a small smile. “That’s a good thing.” 

He was rewarded with a laugh. 

Castiel loved humans in a way his brothers did not.

He thought, perhaps, he loved Dean Winchester most of all.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "In Flanders Fields" by LtCol John McCrae


End file.
